Andrea turned towards the third person, questioningly.
“Tell it, for I am not listening,” said Balsamo, burying his face in his hands to prevent the voice coming to him.
“He wanted news,” said Andrea in a diminishing voice, not to torture the count’s heart, “of a person who fled from his house and who is—now—dead.”
“Faintly as she breathed the last word, Balsamo heard it, or guessed it was spoken, for he uttered a gloomy sob.
“Proceed,” said he as a long silence fell: “your brother wants to know all and he must know it. After the man obtained the information he sought, what did he do?”
“He went away, leaving me in the garden, where I fell as he departed as though the sustaining force had vanished with him. I was still in the sleep, a leaden one. A man came out of the bushes, took me in his arms and carried me up into my rooms where he placed me on the sofa. Oh,” she said with scorn and disgust, “it is that little Gilbert again.”
“Gilbert?”
“He stands to listen—he goes into the other room but returns frightened. He enters Nicole’s closet—Horror!”
“What?”
“Another man comes in, and I cannot defend myself—not even scream, for I am locked in sleep.”